“You’ll want wellies,” he told me, giving my shoes a sardonic look: QED. His accent had a hard border-country edge. “Spares in the tools shed.” “I’ll be fine as I am,” I said. I had an idea that archaeological digs involved trenches several feet deep in mud, but I was damned if I was going to spend the morning clumping around after this guy with my suit trailing off ludicrously into someone’s discarded wellies.
If Rob wasn't so damn vain, they would've found the murder site in the first chapter!!!
